


Assorted Beginnings

by ponticle



Series: Ponticle's Collected Shorts [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Beginnings, Canon Universe, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Western, each chapter is something entirely different, please finish these stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-16 13:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Have you ever looked through your pesky drafts folder and thought, "Man, I wish someone would finish these..." Well, that's exactly what Ihopewill happen with the following beginnings. Each new chapter of this work will be an abandoned story that has a bunch of potential. Treat them as extended prompts... and if you finish one, please tag it as a related work. I can't wait to read what you come up with!





	1. California Gold Rush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair Theirin, Mayor of Coloma, reflects on life west of The Mississippi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationship: Alistair/Anders, Anders/M!Hawke (implied)  
> Setting: The Old West  
> POV: Alistair - first person, present tense

 

* * *

  

June 12, 1849

 

We’ve spent a year in this wild frontier. We started out as a band of cowboys and explorers, outlaws and pilgrims. Now, we’re on the verge of becoming a community. At least, we _were_ , until Hawke rolled into town.

 

Christien Hawke is the type of gunslinger who incites riots, who breeds malcontent, and who leaves a trail of bodies in his wake. Of course, no one _faults_ him for it — this is the _wild west_ : the frontier, the home of adventure and freedom. If we wanted to stick to the old rules, we would have stayed back east. _I_ would have stayed in Boston.

In Boston, I was a writer. I tried to capture the American spirit and hone my craft into something like the greats. I _worshipped_ Twain and Melville. But living in my downtown apartment, walking the cobblestone streets in relative alacrity, I soon discovered I had no story to tell. I hadn’t seen enough; I hadn’t made hard choices. I’d never done _anything_ hard at all, actually.

My parents were the Boston Theirins — a family so prominent, I never doubted that I would spend my winters at Harvard and my summers on the Vineyard. How could I write about _trials_ when I’d grown up with a silver spoon permanently lodged down my throat? I knew I needed a change. So, much to the chagrin of my mother, and the disappointment of my father, I left. And now, here I am — the Mayor of this fine town... Coloma: the heart of the Californian Gold Rush.

 

The circumstances surrounding my appointment to this post are rather macabre — all the better for my book, I thought once. The original Mayor fell victim to a variety of ailments during the trip over, as did his Deputy and several other notable figures. We watched them wither away, despite the expert attentions of our town doctor. Those covered wagons became _hearses_ for almost half our complement before we arrived. I’ll always remember the way the canvas swayed...releasing the souls of the dead into the acrid air.

By the time we reached California and settled, we had a population of 32. Our original tally was 74. It was then up to those of us who remained to decide who would fill what roles. It came down to education, plain and simple. I think that’s rather ironic, actually — a group of ne'er do wells, turning to the Harvard man in their time of need. My father would have been proud, my mother apoplectic.

It wasn’t an easy job then — I had a lot to contend with: construction, expansion, and most troublingly, rule of law. I say it was troubling because I don’t, as a rule, _believe_ in rules. I have always seen the world and its inhabitants as a spectrum from better to worse. Never have I considered something so good it’s beyond reproach — including my own ability to run this town.

Nevertheless, I found a tentative rhythm. I began by planting those people who I knew and liked in prominent roles. My friend, and fellow literary aficionado, Dorian, became our primary school teacher. A strange role for a man, I know — but all colleges employ men as professors, why shouldn’t children be given the same educational options? Besides, there are exactly _four_ school-aged children in our midst. In his free time, Dorian maintains our library — it’s full of Twain and Melville, by the way.

My Sheriff is a man named Cullen Rutherford. Unlike me, he grew up west of the Mississippi. His education wasn't formal, but he's a quick study. He cares about the law and each member of our little community. The most curious thing about him is his religious adherence. Two or three times a week I catch him praying in the station or crossing himself while staring blankly into the horizon. I'm not sure what it means.

Back in Boston, I decided there was no god almost _as_ my father told me. Although he's never worked a day in his life, his one true love has always been science. From the day I was born, he instilled in me the terror that most non-god-fearing people have: that we will eventually cease to exist and it means _nothing_.

Cullen's faith is a mystery… but at least he has _something_ to believe in.

The woman who runs the brothel is named Isabela. She's beautiful and dangerous. She employs some of the most winsome women in the town — most of them didn't travel with us from the coast; they migrated here when we struck gold, but that's another story. My favorite of Isabela’s associates is Eva. She grew up on the coast of Maine — not so far from where my parents had a summer home. I don't know how she ended up here, but she won't tell anyone her last name, so I'm intrigued. As a facet of my novel, she's the mysterious prostitute with a dark past and a heart of gold.

Beyond that, we have Fenris, the blacksmith, Merrill, who runs the general store, and the Hawke twins. They're Christien’s younger siblings. They don't get into nearly as much trouble as their big brother… Carver even wants to be trained as a town deputy under Sheriff Rutherford.

...and then there's Anders. I saved him for last because I'm never sure what to make of him. He's our town doctor — locals just call him _Doc_. He's a part of everyone's family because he's _there_ day or night, whether it's typhoid fever or childbirth. He has long sandy hair that he ties back every day. Despite his best efforts, a few wayward strands always fall in his eyes. He was _made_ for a novel.

Despite how much I admire him, I don't know him at all. We met on the trip here — he was the one who tried to prevent half our caravan from dying… _unsuccessfully_. Honestly, there was nothing he could have done — the journey west claims many lives every time it's attempted. The frontier is not for the faint of heart. Nevertheless, I think he views it as a failure. Of our group, I'm the only one who witnessed what happened up close; I think that makes me a reminder.

My office is across the street from his clinic. I can often see him working late into the night. He’s writing something — I can’t tell what, but it’s something serious. He toils endlessly by candlelight. I asked him about it once in passing. Apparently, he doesn’t want to waste oil when he’s by himself. He’s considerate, if nothing else.

 

This morning, Anders is standing outside his clinic, staring off into the distance. It’s odd because I’ve never even seen him stand _still_ before. My curiosity gets the better of me and I venture out into the dusty street. Red sand puffs up between us as a horse-drawn wagon rolls through. Still, he doesn't look at me until we're face to face.

I tip the edge of my hat toward him. “How are you today, Doc?” I ask.

He blinks, as if he's seeing me for the first time. He grabs the brim of his hat obligingly. “Fine. Thank you, Mayor.”

I smile at him. “You can call me Alistair.”

He _doesn't_ look pleased. “All right.”

Something feels _off_. The novelist in me insists it's something tragic — burned into his psyche.

“Can I help you with anything, Doc?” I ask. I decided Doc was the right title; he didn't reciprocate my offer of first names, after all.

“I very much doubt it,” he answers. It's so quick and terse that it almost throws me.

“Oh?” I lean against a rough post. A few horses whinny over my shoulder.

“Yes,” he looks right at me for the first time. His eyes are like deep pools of liquid — dark and of uncertain depth. He's _terrifying_ up close.

“Well,” I cough, “if you change your mind… I'm just across the street.”

I gesture lamely to my office. He makes a tsking sound that seems involuntary _and_ uncalled for.

Behind me, I hear a rustling sound. A look over my shoulder confirms what I feared — it’s Hawke.

“Howdy,” Christien says. It sounds like he’s trying to be ironic; I consider it a failed attempt.

“Hello,” I turn toward him and smile. “Something we can do for you?”

He smirks. It’s an expression that drips with confidence and is tinged with a dare. I’ve been trying to think of a reason to get him arrested since he first came to town.

“No, I’m here to see the Doc,” he says. He bites his bottom lip in a way I can’t even vaguely understand. It verges on lewd.

I turn back to face Anders — a question forming in the back of my throat — but when I see the expression on his face, I’m halted. He looks _pleased_ — incredibly so. What on _earth_ could Anders have to be happy about with Hawke standing here?

The silence stretches. It occurs to me suddenly that I’m in the way. “I guess I’ll leave you to it,” I say.

I feel their eyes on me as I walk away. I have to force myself not to turn around. I don’t really _need_ to, anyway… I can still see that expression on Anders’ face. It’s as confusing as it is compelling.

* * *

 


	2. The False Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders leaves for the Deep Roads when he hears the song, but someone won't let him go through with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationship: Alistair/Anders, Anders/F!Hawke past  
> Setting/World State: Canon, during Inquisition, Alistair is a warden and survived.   
> POV: Anders - third person - present/past tense - free-flowing narrative style.

* * *

Anders wakes up with a start. He sits bolt upright and hits his head on a low-hanging tent pole.

“Shit,” he mumbles to no one. This deep in the ground no one will hear him, but it feels good to swear. Something about the yelling dulls the pain in his head and — momentarily — quiets the _song_.

He always believed that when his calling came, he would know it. He had an idea that it would be familiar — like the dreams of the archdemon or a twisted distortion of a childhood lullaby — but it wasn't. Instead, it crept up on him and _bam_ — out of nowhere he knew: he was going to die.

So like any good warden, he ignored it for as long as he possibly could. And when it was _completely_ intolerable, he began his descent into the deep roads. He packed a small tent, some food, and a leather bound journal. It was all rather macabre, but he wasn't sure what else to do — other than the intrusive melody, he had all his faculties. So he set out, as if he were camping.

If Hawke had _stayed_ he wouldn’t have done any of that… but she didn’t — _wouldn’t._ When the Inquisition needed help, she left.

_They’d argued…_

“I’ll be back before you know it,” she says, throwing her things into a pack.

Anders pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He’s worried.

“I just wish you’d take me with you… I could _help_ ,” he says. “What if you get into a scrape and need healing?”

“I won’t; I’ll be careful.” She looks up at him and smirks.

“That’s rich — you’ve never been careful in your whole life,” he laughs ruefully.

“Anders,” she drops her things and crosses the room to wrap her arms around his chest. “I’ll take precautions. I’m going to be _fine…_ but I _need_ to do this…” She leans in to kiss him.

He lets his lips graze hers in a perfunctory way.

If he had known it would be the last time, he would have done it differently.

“Fine… just come home to me…” He hugs her. “Soon?”

“Soon,” she agrees.

 

Only, she never makes it back and Anders knows why. Before he hears anything, he _knows_ she’s dead. He can feel it in his soul.

With nothing left to live for, and the song getting louder, he sets out.

 

Three days ago, he got rather lost and spent the majority of the day writing just to pass the time. He wrote to her mostly — melancholy words that dripped and oozed out of the recesses of his gut. Every _one_ felt like bloodletting.

He could feel darkspawn below him, but he wasn't sure how to get down to them. He also didn't _want_ to. Anders has been a lot of things in his life, but namely, he's been resourceful. His desire to stay alive is still pervasive.

So when he wakes up and hits his head on the tent pole, he realizes suddenly that he _wants_ to live. The only problem is, he doesn’t know how. Secondarily, as he transitions from sleeping to waking, he realizes… _something_ woke him up. More accurately, the _absence_ of something. The song is _gone_.

That’s the moment he knows — beyond a shadow of a doubt — that Hawke is really gone. If he knows her at all — and he does — he knows she won’t rest until she saves everyone. Maybe she had a little extra magic left for him, after all.

 

He crawls to the mouth of the tent and peers out into the darkness. He can’t see anything, but he has a sense that something is out there — coming closer. He grabs his staff and crouches at a nearby rock formation.

Someone stumbles around the corner — fast. It could be a hurlock, based on the height. Anders whirls his staff overhead and emits a blast of electricity so strong it cracks against the walls of the cave.

 _Everything goes dark_.

He feels the magic drain out of the air and has an urge to vomit as he crumples to his knees.

Suddenly, hands are around his waist, dragging him up. He blinks up into a face — handsome and smooth and sort of familiar: certainly _not_ a darkspawn. Recognition dawns: “Fucking Templar.”

“I'm sorry,” says the stranger. “I didn’t know if I’d find you and I’ve had to fight my way through to get here...”

Anders tries to gather the strength to sit up. “The order can’t even let me _die_ in peace?” he chokes.

“What? Oh… oh maker — no… I’m _Alistair_ ,” he helps Anders sit up and leans in to look at him. “Hawke sent me to find you — you’re Anders; you must be.”

_Hawke sent him? Maker, his life might not be over._

“Where is she?” Anders blurts. He _has_ to know. At the same time, he illuminates the tip of his staff, which is lying on the ground nearby. The second he sees Alistair's face, he realizes, they've met before.

“You're _that_ Alistair,” he mumbles blankly.

Alistair bites his lip; he looks contrite — embarrassed, even.

“Well?” Anders can’t keep his temper in check, “Where is she?!”

“Anders…” Alistair won’t hold his gaze, “She’s gone…”

Nothing has changed in the room, but Anders feels like he’s had all his mana drained again. He shouldn’t have let himself hope.

“Then what the hell are you doing down here?” asks Anders, pulling free of Alistair’s grasp. “Have you come just to give me _yet another_ reason to go through with this? Because you’ve succeeded…” He stands and starts gathering his things.

“Anders — wait…” Alistair looks like he’s going to chase Anders peripherally, but he stops short.

“Why?” Anders shouts. He turns back and feels sparks in his palms. He isn’t in a good place. It would just take one more tiny thing to push him over the edge; he can feel it.

“She wanted to me tell you…” Alistair pauses, “that she loves you…”

Anders closes his eyes. He can hear his pulse in his ears and feel it in his neck.

“...and… she wanted me to make sure you didn’t go through with this…” adds Alistair.

Anders opens his eyes to a squint. “ _What_?”

“Didn’t you notice?” Alistair takes two steps forward and leans in. “The song stopped.”

Anders blinks and turns his head to the side, listening. His suspicions earlier are confirmed; it’s gone.

“What happened?” he asks.

“It wasn’t real,” says Alistair. “It was all manufactured… Hawke wanted me to—”

Anders interrupts, “How did she know I was going to do this?”

 _Because she knows him — knew_.

Alistair shrugs, but it’s a knowing shrug — like he might understand turmoil as well as Anders does.

“Well, you’ve done your job…” says Anders quickly. “Thanks… I can manage from here…”

“What do you mean?” asks Alistair.

“I’ve got this. You’ve been a good messenger; now you’re done,” Anders waves a hand dismissively.

“I think we might want to stick together — getting out could be pretty dangerous…” says Alistair.

In Anders’ head, he’s already planning a _new_ death — without Hawke, is he really alive at all?

“Come on, Anders…” says Alistair.

It occurs to Anders all at once that Alistair is acting _awfully_ familiar for someone he doesn’t know at all. He feels another surge of anger and magic. An errant spark shoots into one of the cave walls. They both jump.

“Sorry…” Anders bites his lip.

Alistair nods, but he still looks wary.

“I don’t need any help…” concludes Anders.

“Then help _me_ — I could use it…” says Alistair.

Anders doubts that — he clawed his way in here; he can probably leave in the same fashion — but he decides not to argue.

“Fine… we can go together.”

* * *

 


End file.
